Minus the mock-heroic guitars, frontman Tjinder Singh's globalist critiques lose some of their pop-political punch.

Sniper's voice still sags and drags, but Land and Fixed is remarkably feel-good, even when channeling the Cure via the Breakfast Club bounce of "Blurred Tonight" or Joy Division on cold-wave throbber "Collides."

On his first solo studio album, the granny-spectacled guitar god unplugs for a set of gentle acoustic ditties.

Featuring Farfisa, sax, strings, anything but loud guitar, Dancing Backwards doesn't even try, and that's its virtue.

Pairing dreamy synths and tight riffs, the result is confident and exhilarating.

Let Me Come Home goes widescreen with a vengeance, trading in too much of the band's unhinged jig and bounce for a more generic-sounding epic soundtrack -- guitar and bass to the front, strings in the middle distance.

Rise Against's strident anti-ignorance messages have coursed through several albums of tightly wound, good-intentions punk.

In contrast to Miller's usual earthiness, this Americana super-session is sonically lighter than air--thanks to spectral six-string ambience from Bill Frisell, Marc Ribot, and pedal-steel ace Greg Leisz, who adorn heavenly voices including Emmylou Harris and Patti Griffin.

Journeymen that they are, though, McCaughey (Young Fresh Fellows) and Wynn (ex-Dream Syndicate) understand the poignant vindication in being remembered at all.

Expansive yet intimate, ornate yet seductive, this is capital-A Art rock without pretense, but with tremendous heart.

You know you're in trouble when Avril Lavigne starts sharing song titles with R.E.M. and Pink Floyd.

Pedals reveals a group of reenergized vets who've hardly mellowed with

Compiled by Stones Throw's Peanut Butter Wolf, this set features singles, club mixes, and unreleased tracks, including the George Clinton-esque electro of "On the Floor," plus mid-'80s synth-dance tracks that recall Prince and DeBarge.

Though made by only two people, Civilian never feels less than fully realized.

Lasers works best when the grabby hooks, electro beats, and conscious rap rants are all turned down a notch.

On this debut full-length, already a U.K. No. 1, she glides through blippy anthems ("Starry Eyed"), pumping disco ("Animal"), and delicate grooves ("Lights") with a pixie-ish voice that's one notch sweeter than Metric's Emily Haines.

"Turn the dial on my words," she suggests, and the band's glorious noise obliges time and again.

Their Discodeine debut is surprisingly devoid of frothy sensationalism.

Collapse mostly sounds like a familiar friend -- reliable in all the best ways, but still capable of quietly insinuating surprises.

When the band's clattering, it's great fun ("Why Not"), but leave the tongue-in-cheek (or is it?) spoken-word title track at home and release the rock instead.

The songs appeal broadly, but they're tailor-made for two people.

To compensate for the loss of [drummer Jerry Fuchs], the band gets by with help from former Outhud/!!! alchemist Justin Vandervolgen, who mixed the album to accentuate its disco grooves (see the title track), and Zombi's Steve Moore, who added synth arpeggiations to the epic arc of "Oaxaca."

Using lo-fi digital techniques to play up rough edges and raw emotion, Blake's rare talent is to make music so naked seem unshakable.

Getting away from his brother really does seem to make Liam happy.

Li's new album, Wounded Rhymes, is equal parts seething ice princess and lonely snowwoman, vacillating almost track by track between fury and despondence over a scotched relationship.

Playing like 12 unmastered seven-inches varying wildly in style and volume levels, Nothing Fits vacillates between feral Wire putter, psych-addled Wipers soar, and bleary No Age blur.

While the production's scope doesn't quite fit Chikita Violenta's knack for scrappy Superchunk-style guitar pop, the busy shimmer usually complements the songs' energy instead of burying it.

Blessed feels more like a country-blues toast to the pissed-off side of interpersonal relations, set to coproducer Don Was' sturdy barroom roots rock. And Williams calls 'em like she feels 'em.